. k :: m= 'í'/ ' . ----- - :: ::::: : //\.\\\ ....,,, a c ..*0 . " . o .,. .. ..,. THE TALK OF THE TOWN A BOSNIAN DIASPORA IN A5TORIA O F the millions of refugees who have fled the decimated re- gions of the former Yugoslavia, a few have managed to arrive in our midst, here in the city. Most have storIes like that of Ibrahim and Adaleta Koristovic, Muslim siblings who fled Sarajevo in 1992, amid the first grenade bursts and sniper fire of the siege. Like the Koristovics, who are nineteen and twenty, most of the refugees here are young and alone-their parents are dead, missing, or still trapped in one of the re- maining "safe areas" of Bosnia. News re- ports from home detail an endless and unbearable flow of casualties-last week's mortar attack near a Sarajevo market- place, for example, killed at least thirty- seven-and reinforce the refugees' most profound fear: that their sense of isolation may be permanent. The American government, which has done so little to help the Bosnian Mus- hms protect themselves, now seems to be turning a cold shoulder even on the refu- gees who have managed to make it here safely; Ibrahim and Adaleta, who ap- plied for political asylum three years ago, still haven't had a preliminary interview. Without asylum, the refugees' status re- mains in bureaucratic limbo. They scrape by in a way painfully reminiscent of their lives in Sarajevo. Ibrahim and Adaleta live in Astoria, o Qyeens. They share a one-bedroom apartment with their grandmother, and sleep alongside her, in bunk beds. The 2 most reliable news the two heard of their >- parents came in January, in response to g an ad they had placed in a Bosnian news- paper. "I was forced to leave my apart- ment and I was deported to Kula. . . > . "" ." L !Ii \#1& I 4.& ), . " d.lr'f "' -' _ ,;,;-.I'í. ( \f: -:::- . rft_ -- ,... ......-.g+' ., M. "'f< "<to....... ,k.:':"" Q ""1(. ø.x.. .. . where I met your father, and he said his wife N adza was also there," a stranger " I d ' kn ifh " wrote. on t ow e got out or not. Though grateful for the news, the Koristovics were hardly relieved: Kula is a Serb-run prison. The Koristovics' apartment has be- come a meeting place for Bosnian refu- gees, not simply because they have been here longer than the others but also be- cause they are exceedingly warm, decent people, possessing an infectious, if in- explicable, cheer. On a recent Sunday night, about a dozen friends, all from Sarajevo, came over, and they spent the evening around an electric piano, singing traditional Bosnian ballads. When they spoke, they often interrupted themselves in midsentence to sing out a few sad bars, as ifby reflex. There was Nina, who is twenty-two, and Edin, her younger brother by two years, who came to the United States last year. Nina had a scholarship to Upsala College, and an American family agreed to help them financially. Upsala went bust and the familýs sponsorship ended, so Nina and Edin were left to their own devices. Now Nina babysits, off the books, to support them both. There was Lelo, Nina's boyfriend, who had just arrived after three years as a soldier in the Bosnian Army. His face ashen, his eyes wide, he walked about the apartment like a phantom. Lelo has di- rected his friends not to ask him about the fighting, so while the group laughed . ,\ 1" " at a videotape he had made of two other soldIers goofing off-playing with ma- chine guns, pretending to hold class in the rubble of a bombed-out university building-he and Nina convened sol- emIÙY in the hallway, holding hands. T HERE were others-Jasmina, Olja, and the only Serb, Ozren-all of whom have overcome so much, and whose struggles could be alleviated to some de- gree by a grant of asylum. How ironic, then, that Congress, which unsuccessfi.ùly attempted to lift the arms embargo against the Bosnian Army, now seems eager to embrace an insidious bill-called the Im- migration in the National Interest Act, drafted by Representative Lamar Smith, of Texas-that would severely restnct grants of political asylum. Still, such matters seemed far from the minds of those gathered at the Koristovics'. It was late now, and the singing and the laughter-at Ibrahim's drawing of the Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic as a vampire, for example-gave way to a contented, natural calm. Soon there were hugs and goodbyes, and the refugees wan- dered out into their new diaspora. 'We were depressed tonight," Adaleta said apologetically, sitting down on a sofa that had been salvaged from a Dumpster. "Last night, we were out until three in the morning. We were with a friend who had just arrived from Sarajevo. He used to play guitar in a band, but in the war he had part of his arm blown off: here." She "I> f-- , (' >{ /"..< ' .};:Ð ... 'v "t ., > '